


The Dragons are Sated

by youjokebut



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Bottom Jesse McCree, Brotherly Bonding, Drunk Sex, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Top Hanzo Shimada, Trans Hanzo Shimada, hanzo's dragons are he anxiety, implied PTSD, nothing is explicitly said about it though, spirit dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 00:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12664779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youjokebut/pseuds/youjokebut
Summary: Love is hard.





	The Dragons are Sated

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all i'm BACK with a VENGEANCE. school has been hectic with labs n case studies and shit so i haven't been able to write in a while. this is a fic i started a long time ago and it was super shitty but i (hopefully) turned it into something enjoyable! anyways, ENJOY

Hanzo awoke with a pounding headache. As instinct took over, he immediately began to take note of his surroundings; he was in a dark room and there was a heavy pressure around his waist. There was only one exit, a door about seven feet away. Getting out the room would prove difficult, seeing as his prosthetics were propped against the wall opposite of him. That was strange; he never took those off unless--

Realization finally hit his groggy mind, and he relaxed. He reached down, fingertips tracing the hairy, thick forearm that belonged none other than Jesse McCree.

Said man was snoring softly against the back of his neck, muttering something in his sleep. Hanzo found that there was no point in the day where the gunslinger did not talk. He shifted, turning to face the other man. He smiled upon seeing his friends’ face, squashed up against a pillow with a pool of drool forming from his open mouth.

There was whiskey on the agents’ breath, something that Hanzo quickly learned was a weekly routine for the other man. Like clockwork, every Friday night at 22:00, McCree would enter Hanzo’s quarters and proceed to drink himself stupid, passing out promptly two hours later. Something about his years in Blackwatch made it difficult for the man to have soundless nights asleep. Hanzo knew the feeling, and if the alcohol made it easier on him, he wasn’t going to fault him for it.

The archer wrinkled his nose; that didn’t mean the smell was any more pleasant to wake up to.

Hanzo would join him on these nights, the gunslinger with his whiskey and himself with his sake. It would make it more enjoyable if they drank together; he would recall that they would talk the night away, joking, and then nothing. Neither of them would remember the night prior, but every Saturday morning, they would wake up right beside each other.

The first time it had happened, Hanzo had raved at McCree, all but physically throwing the man out of his room. But it had been months now, and the archer found that he looked forward to their weekly rendezvous.

“McCree,” He whispered, tapping gently on the side of the other man’s face. The other agent sniffed, eyebrow quirking, but otherwise gave no indication of waking up. Hanzo allowed his fingertips to linger on the man’s jaw for a second longer, before tapping him again, harder. “ _McCree_.”

The agent grunted, muttering something garbled under his breath. Hanzo breathed a soft laugh.

“It’s nearly ten, gunslinger,” He quipped, this time shaking the man’s shoulder more forcefully. The agent grimaced, but didn’t open his eyes. “We must not waste the day away.”

“Doesn’t matter t’me, I just go back t’ sleep in my bed anyway.” He said, voice gravelly from exhaustion. The man shrugged, shoulder bumping up against Hanzo’s. The archer rolled his eyes fondly, watching as the man shifted onto his back.

He then stretched, lifting his arms above his head and arching his back until an audible pop was heard. The covers shifted, slowly revealing more of his tawny skin. Old scars, fresh bruises littered the mans’ collarbone and his chest, likely from his latest mission. Finally opening his eyes, he turned to archer and grinned. Even after all this time waking up next to his fellow agent, he was still floored by how he had managed to look so positively cheery this early in the morning.

In a blink of an eye, his expression changed into that of one that Hanzo knew all too well: flirtatious.

“See somethin’ ya like there, archer?” He raised a tantalizing eyebrow and rolled over on his side. He propped himself on his elbow, putting his chest on full, unabashed display.

The archer quickly looked anywhere but him.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Hanzo lied, sitting up and resting his back against the headboard. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck and sighed. Without looking at the fellow agent, he knew there was a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You were _staring_ ,” McCree supplied matter-of-factly.

“I was not,” _You were_ , the dragons hissed. He ignored them. “Bring me my legs.”

The gunslinger chuckled, but obliged. Kicking the covers off himself and onto Hanzo, he rolled out of bed with a groan, raising his robotic arm to massage his left temple. He looked exhausted, more paled than usual as he strode across the room. When he reached down to fetch his prosthetics, he tensed, wincing, before handing one of them to Hanzo with a strained smile.

“Need help today, sugar?” He asked, taking a seat next to the bowman and waving his right leg. Hanzo reached out and shook his head, appreciative. Months ago, the endearment would’ve angered him, but now it was all a part of their routine. McCree would tease him with pet names, compliments, empty promises of something more. Hanzo would either ignore him or, on a good day, play along.

Today was a good day. Saturday mornings were always good.

“No, _darling_ ,” He responded, glancing at the gunslinger and smirking. McCree feigned shock, clutching his chest and falling back on the bed with a flourish. He raised a hand to lay over his eyes, a dumbstruck smile on his face. Hanzo couldn’t help but match it with one of his own, chuckling softly at the other man’s antics.

It took his longer than he liked to admit putting on his legs. After all these years, there was still pain, the feeling that his flesh legs were still there. As he closed the clasps just under his knee, he winced, feeling the metal dig into his scarred skin. It would be at least a couple more minutes before he put on the other one, and even more time for him to get up and start walking.

He glanced at McCree again, who was breathing shallowly, seemingly drifting off once again.

“McCree.”

The other man jolted at the sound of his voice, releasing a sharp intake of breath and removing the hand from in front of his eyes.

“’m awake.” He grumbled, though he closed his eyes once again and yawned. Rising slightly, he leaned back on his elbows, glancing at the door. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Hanzo spoke before he knew he was going to speak.

“If you are not feeling well, you may stay here to sleep it off.” He said, surprising both himself and McCree. Instead of looking at the other man, he stared down at his prosthetics, slowly and carefully putting the next one on. The discomfort made it easier to ignore the eyes boring into the back of his skull. “You have said that my bed is far more comfortable, and I won’t be needing it until tonight.”

When he finally glanced at the other man, there was an unreadable expression on his face. However, his eyes were crinkled at the corners and he wore his trademark warm, inviting smile. Hanzo tried to ignore the way the pace of his heart quickened, how his skin prickled. He offered a small smile to the outlaw in return.

That was apparently McCree’s cue to snatch the blankets back from under Hanzo, pulling them up around his shoulders and faceplanting into his pillow. He closed his eyes again, breathing out a content sigh.

“G’night, Hanzo.”

Hanzo lingered a moment longer, before making his exit.

“See you next week, McCree.”

\--

“Le’s play twenty ques’ions!”

Hanzo raised an elegant eyebrow, pausing in chugging down his sake to answer the other man.

“Sounds dull,” He answered, taking quiet pleasure in McCree’s dumbfounded expression at his response. He chuckled, conceding and taking another sip of sake. “Okay. Ask me a question.”

McCree raised a finger to his chin, tapping it. Hanzo could practically smells his mental gears turning.

“I got it! Your favorite color.”

Hanzo laughed.

“Blue, gunslinger. You should know that,” He joked, gesturing down to his gi. McCree slapped a hand to his head and gasped in realization. Hanzo rolled his eyes fondly, nodding to the man’s discarded serape. “Since I already know yours, I will ask another question.” Hanzo leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. “Have you ever been intimate with anyone while working for Overwatch?”

McCree stared at him, expression unreadable. If Hanzo didn’t have alcohol coursing through his veins, maybe he would be a bit bothered by it. Now, though, he just grinned obscenely, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. The outlaw shifted under his gaze, breaking eye contact.

“Back in Blackwatch, there were a couple. Not at th’same time ‘nd they weren’t too serious,” He raised a hand to the back of his neck, usual impervious flirtation replaced with caution. Hanzo blinked at him, surprised by the unusual honesty. It was then that McCree met his gaze once again, a small, pleased smile on his face. “Yer kinda my first in that department, darlin’.”

Hanzo didn’t respond with words, he couldn’t if he tried. The cowboy had a gift of causing any witty comebacks the bowman might’ve had die on his throat. But that didn’t stop him from surging forward and capturing the gunslingers mouth in his. The dragons were not there to stop him.

McCree tasted overwhelming of his whiskey, that at least was to be expected, but as their tongues mingled, fought sloppily for dominance, Hanzo tasted something that was unique to the other man. Strong, firm arms captured his waist, pulled him until he was straddling him. Hanzo was ungraceful as he started unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it over the outlaw’s shoulders. He grabbed a handful of his chest, squeezing. McCree broke their kiss, moaning obscenely, and Hanzo jumped to his neck, biting down harshly on the exposed skin and thumbing hurriedly over his nipples.

“Hanzo,” McCree breathed, pushing him away. Hanzo remained steadfast on his lap, wrapping his legs around his waist. “What’re you…what are we doin’?”

Hanzo spoke without thought.

“I am going to have sex with you.” He supplied, before pausing and looking meaningfully down at the other man. “If that is okay with you.”

McCree blinked, sputtering and nodding fervidly.

“I mean, yeah, I’m a-okay with that, partner,” Hanzo grinned wolfishly down at him, leaning in again. McCree stopped him by putting a hand on his chest. He frowned. “But I mean after this. What’re we doin’?”

He paused. For once in his life, he wished the dragons had an answer for him.

“I do not know.” He answered honestly, taking the agents’ face in his hands and searching his face meaningfully. “But I do that you are important to me, Jesse McCree.” He paused, licking his lips and looking at him through hooded eyes. “I want to show you just _how_ important.”

McCree flushed then, flashing his warm, breathtaking grin that made Hanzo’s heart skip a beat.

“Same here, gorgeous,” He crooned, pulling the man closer once again. Waggling his eyebrows, his voice dropped an octave. “Now, hop on this dick.”

Hanzo leaned in, chuckling as he pressed another heated kiss to the outlaw’s mouth.

“Not likely.”

They both awoke the next morning, unexplainably sore and sweating. Neither of them mentioned it, though. McCree only turned to Hanzo, flashing his characteristic grin as he pulled him into a bear hug. The dragons stirred in Hanzo’s gut, but otherwise remained dormant. He smiled at his friend, elbowing him until he was freed from his grasp.

“You smell awful.” He laughed, pushing the man farther away from him.

McCree gasped, feigning hurt.

“You _wound_ me, honey!”

\--

By the time Hanzo was out of the shower, McCree was already drunk.

Not the most intoxicated that Hanzo had ever seen him, no, but far more inebriated than he had been just twenty minutes prior. It was rare that the other man started without him; though, the latest mission had taken its toll on him. He had remembered how McCree looked when he came face-to-face with Ana Amari. The mixture of bewilderment and awe, but mostly anger and devastation. She was dead, he had grieved her, comforted her daughter through her untimely demise, but there she was, standing before him, acting as if nothing had changed. Hanzo understood how that could turn one’s world upside down.

 _He did not kill her, foolish one_. The dragons growled, coiling around his waist and pulling tightly. _Do not compare your pain to his_.

“You did not wait for me.” Hanzo tried for nonchalance, humor, even. He really didn’t mind that the gunslinger had begun their weekly routine without him. But the dragons made it hard for him to think straight around the other man. They fed into his insecurities, their voices mockingly tender while they whispered sickening vile things. Reminded him of truths he was better off forgetting.

On Friday nights, when he drank, they were quiet. When they were, he could talk to McCree.

Said agent blinked up at him, mouth opening and closing as he attempted to form silent words. Then he grinned, reaching out to the archer and beckoning him closer. Hanzo eyed him warily, but his legs ignored his reluctance, immediately walking towards the other man and taking his usual place next to him. Wordlessly, the gunslinger handed him his sake with a wink. He muttered his quiet gratitude, not meeting his gaze.

They settled into an uncomfortable silence – uncomfortable for Hanzo that is, with McCree staring daggers at him, sipping from his flask, entirely unbothered. Losing patience, the archer paused and glared up across to the other man.

“What?” He demanded, probably sounding far crueler than he intended to. McCree, thankfully, seemed unfazed. The agent just grinned at him, leaning forward and reaching out to tangle his flesh fingers into his hair.

McCree had touched Hanzo before; on the battlefield, they would stand back to back, working in tandem to eliminate enemies. The gunslinger would often grab his wrist or brush his shoulder to get his attention. They were fleeting touches, they held no significance. Then as they became closer, McCree would hug him, carry him, ruffle his hair, like he did any of his other friends.

This was different; it felt purposeful and tender. There was a certain endearing casualness to it, something that McCree always impossibly was, but there was something wistful about his expression. His unfocused eyes seemed to try to memorize the archer’s features before settling on his mouth. He blinked languidly, finger tips moving to tug lightly on his greying sideburns. Hanzo tried to ignore the way his heart seized in his chest at the soft touch. Then the gunslinger met his gaze, smiling.

“Yer hair is wet,” He finally said, speech slurred to the point that Hanzo took a moment to make sure that he heard him correctly. “ _Yer_ wet.”

“Yes,” He responded, carefully. Leaning away from the other man, he grabbed McCree by the wrist and pulled his hand away. “Showers usually involve water.”

McCree laughed harder than he would’ve normally. But Hanzo paid no mind, he was more concerned with the gunslinger wriggling out of his grasp and lacing their fingers together. The archer all but gaped at him, sake long forgotten.

Hanzo wasn’t naïve enough to believe that McCree treated him like he did all the other agents. He knew they were far more intimate than just friends should be. The way the sharpshooter looked at him when he thought he wasn’t looking, the soft brush of lips against his neck before they went to sleep, the way McCree was glued to him during missions; he wasn’t stupid, he knew McCree cared for him more than he did anyone else. Hanzo felt the same – how couldn’t he?

But people he allowed to get close to him got hurt. The dragons made sure to remind him of that.

“’m not much up fer chattin’ tonight, sweetheart,” McCree muttered, uncharacteristically solemn. Hanzo grunted in understanding, shifting closer to the other man. The dragons hissed warningly, but he ignored them. “Can we jus’ lay here?”

The archer frowned, nodding, and in a blink of an eye, McCree had gathered him up in his arms and buried his face in his neck. He smelled of stale smoke and whiskey, but it wasn’t unpleasant. And, as much as his dragons protested, he tentatively wrapped his arms around the gunslinger.

The outlaw then said something that Hanzo couldn’t hear.

“What was that?” He asked, pulling away slightly to look at the other man. He was shocked to find tears in his eyes.

McCree laughed, humorously, turning away from him, laying down on his side, and pulling his knees up to his chest. He was shaking, sobs hiccupping out of him. Without another thought, Hanzo took his place behind him, wrapping an arm around him and brushing sweat-slick bangs out of his face. The dragons were coiled around the archer’s chest, excruciatingly tight, but he fought his way through their torment. McCree looked up at him, hopelessness etched across his normally gleeful features.

“I love you.”

The confession was whispered through a series of stuttered breaths.

 _You do not deserve his love_ , one dragon shrieked, causing Hanzo’s head to pound. _You will only hurt him_.

The other dragon was quiet, possibly in shock, and their grip on his chest loosened enough for him to choke out:

“I love you, too,” He managed, thumbing away the moisture under the other man’s eyes. McCree looked relieved, fresh tears forming, as he grinned up at him. Hanzo returned with one of his own, kissing his forehead. McCree leaned into the touch. “I love you, Jesse.”

The next hour was full of more quiet conversation; McCree told Hanzo to say it again, asked him why, and asked him to repeat it. The archer did as he was told, murmuring quiet “I love yous”, explaining the multiple moments he fell for him again and again. He told him he was beautiful, caring and kind, and there was no one in this world that could measure up to him. He told him truths the dragons didn’t allow him to voice, let alone think. And, though the spirit dragons were ravenous by the end of the night, relief washed over him. Finally, McCree knew how he felt.

“Don’t let me forget this, Han,” McCree said sometime later, drifting off into what Hanzo hoped would be a dreamless sleep. “In the mornin’ I wanna remember what y’said.”

When Saturday morning came, McCree remembered nothing, and the dragons didn’t allow Hanzo to remind him.

\--

It was one thing to have to like McCree, but it was another thing entirely to love him. And to know it was mutual.

Even hearing the man’s name made the dragons furious; it was like the agent was following him everywhere he went with the way he occupied Hanzo’s every thought. The smell of his cigarette smoke, the way his hand felt in his, his easygoing laughter and heartwarming smile—all of it haunted him. The ancient spirits tried to keep him away, going as far as forcing him to be sick upon merely the sight of the man. His temples pounded with migraines, his body wracked with shakes whenever the gunslinger was near. He was grumpier than usual, more distant, and it was starting to show.

McCree asked him one Friday night if Hanzo was upset with him. Asked if he needed space.

The question was coming from genuine concern for a friend, but Hanzo could also sense the agent’s hesitation. He was worried if he had done something wrong; the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt Hanzo, he had said. Hanzo couldn’t bear the thought of McCree living with undeserved guilt. He told him that he was fine, just feeling under the weather recently. When still the other man seemed unconvinced, he assured him he’d done nothing wrong. Eventually, _reluctantly_ , McCree conceded, enveloping Hanzo in his arms as they drank heavily and watched an old Western.

Still the spirits fought against their union any way they knew how. Why they had taken such an interest in Hanzo's love life, he'd never understand. Although, deep down, he had a feeling they were trying to protect their host. 

He self-medicated the only way he knew how: drinking. Anything to stop their abuse. Anything to be with McCree.

“What are you doing here at this hour?”

Hanzo barely reacted to his brother’s sudden presence. He was too far gone to be anything but a smart mouth. Leaning back in his chair, he blinked up at Genji slowly. His brother rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Before he had a chance to berate him, Hanzo spoke.

“I’m solving world hunger, brother.” He deadpanned, looking back out the window at the pitch-black sky. “Obviously.”

The illumination for the Gibraltar base made it impossible to see the stars; they were one of the only things that Hanzo missed dearly about Hanamura. As a kid, he and Genji would sneak out and he would teach him the constellations. It was one of the rare times his brother would be completely silent next to him, utterly captivated by the stories he told about them. The moon was still visible, which reminded him of his mother. She was the moon to his father’s sun, something she always used to say. He smiled humorlessly.

Genji sighed, ripping the sake away from him. He didn’t protest, but mostly because he could barely move.

“What is wrong with you?” His brother demanded in their native tongue, the frustration in his voice was frightening reminiscent of their childhood. It reminded Hanzo of a particular fight where he had stolen Genji’s favorite handheld game in retaliation of his brother breaking his violin. Genji cried for hours until Hanzo finally took pity on his and gave it back. He chuckled at the memory, which only seemed to anger the swordsman further. “Are you seriously wasted on a Thursday night? In your late thirties?”

Hanzo just shrugged.

Suddenly something changed in Genji’s demeanor. He sighed, shoulders sagging, as he sat down next to Hanzo. His mask had been taken off for the night and expression was disappointed, slightly angry, but mostly pitying. Hanzo glared at him warily, sizing him up. His brother had surely changed, no doubt thanks to that monk.

“Hanzo,” He said slowly, as if he was still unsure of what to say. “What has been going on?”

Hanzo stared at him for a long time. Genji, shockingly, didn’t falter under his scrutinizing gaze. Finally, he sighed and looked back out the window.

“Does your dragon ever,” He hesitated for a moment. “Talk to you?”

Genji blinked, but nodded. Relief washed over Hanzo; at least he wasn’t alone.

He turned toward his brother once again, deciding he was now fully invested in the conversation. Genji shifted where he sat, a small, pleased smile curling his scarred lips. It then hit Hanzo that over the months he’d been part of Overwatch, he hadn’t seen much of Genji. He supposed this would be one of their first non-mission related conversations as reconnected brothers. The thought made his chest blossom with a familiar warmth, one he hadn’t felt with his brother since before he was ordered to kill him. He returned his brother’s smile reluctantly.

“I am…glad,” He admitted, drunken mind finding it difficult to formulate the words he was trying to say. “They have been talking to me about my relationship with,” He burped. “The cowboy.”

“Jesse?” Genji clarified, shaking his head incredulously as Hanzo nodded in affirmation. He raised an eyebrow, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chat. He looked like mother. “What exactly is your relationship with Jesse?”

Hanzo wasn’t usually so blunt, but he could blame the fact he was seeing double on his unusual honesty.

“I don’t know. We have had sex numerous times, I think,” Genji pulled a face. Hanzo ignored him. “Every time we have been drunk, so I don’t remember the details. But several weeks ago he told me—he said he loved me—I wasn’t drunk—and I told him I loved him too because I do, brother, _I love him_.

“But the dragons keep telling me I don’t deserve him and they’re _right_ , and I know they are. I _killed_ you, Genji, my only brother. I hurt everyone I love; mother then you and—it’s my fault you went through what you did and as much as you like to say it was father’s doing, _I_ was the one who—who—”

Genji reached over and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it. Hanzo stopped; he was crying. They both were.

“Hanzo,” His gaze was unbearably kind, his eyes were the same bright, curious one’s from his youth, but they held a sort of wisdom to them now. Genji truly had aged and, despite everything that he’d been through, he truly looked happy. “What you did was wrong. But it is not your fault.”

The bowman shook his head violently, tears spilling from his eyes. He tried to speak—tried to tell him it _was_ his fault—but the words died on his throat. Genji laughed wetly, wiping the heel of his palm over his eyes, then looked at Hanzo again, meaningfully.

“Brother, you often forget that I grew up alongside you. I was there for fathers’ teachings and I…know what you sacrificed for my safety.” Genji squeezed his shoulder once more before he let him go. “I was young, but I know what he did to you during your,” He paused, letting his gaze falter slightly. “ _Meetings_. The things he did to you, and I, were unspeakable, Hanzo. I do not blame you for doing what you did.

“As for the dragons.” His brother began, slowly, tapping his metal chin in thought. Hanzo scoffed at the casualness of it, directly after such a particularly deep conversation; maybe his brother really hadn’t changed that much. He swiped the back of his hand under his eyes, wiping away the trail of tears. “You must remember they are a part of you, brother, but they do not make you. You make your own choices.”

Hanzo paused, blinking owlishly at his brother.

“You are in control of your own destiny, Hanzo,” Genji continued, a prideful, toothy smile spread across his face. He chuckled at his brother’s dumbfounded expression. Hanzo just scowled at him. “I think you know what to do.”

He allowed a small smile in his brother’s direction as he nodded.

There was a brief moment of silence before:

“Is it true that he is—”

“Yes,” Hanzo responded immediately with a pinched expression, already knowing what he was going to say, and not wanting to hear him say it. Genji grinned, slapping his metallic knee and exclaiming that he “knew it”.

He then leaned over, nudging Hanzo with his elbow.

“How’d you even get it up there, with that stick always up your ass?”

Hanzo smirked triumphantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I didn’t have to.”

Genji cocked his head to the side, confused for a moment before he retched at the dawning realization. Hanzo laughed, as his brother got to his feet, hunched over and gagging at the mental image. Without another thought, Genji wobbled out of the room, dramatically bumping into every piece of furniture he happened to come across.

“I’m going to go and try to get my brain uninstalled so I never have to think about that again.”

\--

After a full week of not once being sober, Hanzo made the eye-opening revelation that he never, ever wanted to drink again. He stayed in his room most of the day, only getting up from his bed once when Genji brought him Agent Mako’s “hangover cure”. To Hanzo, it just seemed like raw eggs, goat milk, and rum. Even so, he gave it a try, and immediately figured out it tasted the same way going down as it did going up.

Sure, the dizziness, nausea, and splitting headache was bad, but worth the heart-to-heart he had with his brother. He closed his eyes and sighed; all he needed to do was sleep it off, and then he could finally talk to McCree.

“’s that time of the week, partner!”

What was that phrase the gunslinger always said? “Speak of the Devil”?

Hanzo shrieked, from both surprise and the searing pain in his temple from the cowboy’s outburst. The archer glowered up the amused-looking other man. He was holding his flask, taking a quick sip from it before sitting down at the foot of his bed. Picking up Hanzo’s prosthetics gingerly, the bowman felt them starting to be taken off. Hanzo sighed in relief, stretching his lower half slightly.

McCree chuckled, but Hanzo felt it more than he heard it. The gunslinger was already pressed up against the archer’s back, wrapping a heavy arm around his waist. He buried his face in the crook of Hanzo’s neck, intaking a mouthful of air and releasing it slowly. Hanzo all but melted into his touch, sighing contently through his nose.

He opened his eyes, they were edged with crust and probably bloodshot from lack of sleep. Licking his lips, he realized they were ruined, cracked and probably bleeding from his worrying his bottom lip out of discomfort. He was deathly pale, snot leaking from his nose; both men had seen the dead walk, and he definitely looked worse than any of them.

And yet.

Hanzo mustered all the strength he could to turn towards the other man. McCree’s eyes flickered open to meet the archer’s gaze, he smiled and propped himself up on his elbow. He stared down at him with unabashed adoration. How had he not seen that look before? Had the dragons really distracted him that much?

Despite his disheveled appearance, the other man still looked at Hanzo as if he hung the stars in the sky.

And Hanzo made the realization he had no reason to miss the stars as much as they did, because they were right there in McCree’s eyes.

“How drunk are you?” Hanzo’s voice was rough from disuse, pitched lower than usual. McCree just flashed a smirk, brushing the assassin’s greasy bangs out of his face.

“Drunk enough t’ hold ya, honey,” He replied, chuckling easily and winking. “So, not very. Why?”

Hanzo took a deep breath, trying and failing to steady his heart beat.

“McCree, you told me you loved me four weeks ago.”

Said man tensed at his side, the hand that was absentmindedly stroking through his hair paused.

It wasn’t often that the man was silent, and Hanzo tried to enjoy it while it lasted.

In a matter of seconds, McCree had pushed himself up and away from the archer. Hanzo groaned at the loss of warmth, turned to glare up at the gunslinger and tell him off. He was struck by the mixture of fear, anger, and pain on the other man’s face; the expression made the outlaw look years older, his usually bright features contorted into a grimace.

For a moment he was so confused. McCree had _told_ Hanzo that he loved him, so why was he so averse to _his_ love confession now? Then realization hit him. He inwardly cursed; he said what he had planned out of order. No wonder the gunslinger looked terrified.

“McCree—”

“Hanzo, I’m _so_ sorry,” McCree started, easily overpowering Hanzo’s weak voice. “Was it when I was wasted? Thought that was a--don’t remember, uh, sayin’ that and it was an—”

“—McCree—”

“—accident, partner, I swear. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I know that you don’t feel the same way which is completely understandable but—”

“— _McCree_ —”

“—I don’t wanna mess up what we have, honey. _Shit_ , I don’t mean honey, darlin’. _Fuck,_ I mean—”

“Jesse.” Hanzo interjected, firmly. He grabbed onto the other man’s wrist and tugged him down with an amount of strength that surprised even him. McCree was sprawled on top of him, eyebrows drawn together in distress. The archer wanted to kiss the away, but the lurch in his stomach decided that wasn’t the best idea.

Instead he managed a weak grin, shifting his hand down and lacing their fingers together.

“What I should have said,” He began, squeezing the hand in his encouragingly. “Is that we told _each other_ four weeks ago. You told me to remind you, but I could not until now.” He breathed a soft laugh, marveling in the adorable shock across the other man’s face. “I love you too, gunslinger.”

McCree looked skeptical.

“Are y’sure?” He muttered, searching Hanzo’s face in disbelief. “Ya ain't yankin’ my dainty leg?”

Hanzo huffed another laugh. Then he groaned, stomach protesting, and turned over on his side.

“No, I am not,” He paused, before giving up and closing his eyes. “Yanking your dainty leg.”

McCree practically whooped, so Hanzo elbowed him.

“Celebrate in the morning, sleep now.” He demanded, grabbing McCree’s arm and wrapping it around his waist once again. He leaned back into the other man’s chest, reveling in the comforting warmth of having him so close.

McCree chuckled, relaxing into the embrace and giving Hanzo a wet kiss on the back of his neck.

“Sorry, darlin’,” His voice was barely above a whisper. Hanzo smiled at the low timbre in the gunslinger’s voice, shifting impossibly closer to him. “I love you.”

Hanzo just muttered, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

\--

When he awoke, Hanzo found a tired-looking McCree propped up against the headboard, scrolling through communicator and scratching thoughtfully at the scruff of his beard. Hanzo simply watched him for a couple minutes, enjoying their closeness, before he shifted closer and laid his head on his stomach. McCree chuckled softly, tangling his fingers in Hanzo’s probably disgusting hair. The outlaw didn’t seem to mind, though.

“There’s some aspirin and some water in that bag for you, sweetie.”

Hanzo nodded against his belly, patting it appreciatively as he let his eyes flutter close again.

“I love you.” He mumbled experimentally, expecting the dragons to perk up at the words. But they didn’t; they stayed curled up in the pit of his stomach, comfortable and calm. He smiled, repeating it, stronger this time. “I love you, Jess.”

McCree sighed above him, sounding utterly pleased.

“I love you too, Hanzo.”

The dragons only curled tighter around each other, sated.

**Author's Note:**

> let! these! two! sad! dudes! be! happy!
> 
> also when Hanzo calls McCree "Jess" an angel gets their wings.
> 
> also also clarification, Hanzo's dragon anxiety doesn't just go away, like normal anxiety! He just is having a particularly blissful morning with McCree in the last bit
> 
> follow me on tumblr if you want! @youjokebut
> 
> bean grinder will be updated soon!!!


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